distance
by Bespectacled
Summary: Snapshots of Sybil and Branson; the distance between them, the closeness that forms despite it. Part 10 - Closeness.
1. Rebellion

There were moments, he had to admit, when he wondered if he was just the manifestation of her rebellion.

All three daughters of Downton had done it – Mary had her flirtations (and more, if you were to believe the rumours, although he wasn't certain if he did – he'd seen the way the girl looked at Matthew, an odd devotion coupled with the question of whether she was truly deserving or not), Edith her manipulations, and Sibyl had her political persuasions.

If he was a father, he'd pick Sibyl's rebellion any day – but then, he wasn't exactly a disinterested party. Part of him had enjoyed simply having someone to talk to about such things – and if you were going to talk to anyone about anything, you may as well pick a beautiful young woman.

And oh, she was beautiful. Most seemed to be taken with Mary – an obvious beauty, most certainly, no denying that – but Sibyl was, in his opinion, more beautiful than her sister.

Then again, he wasn't exactly a disinterested party...

There was definitely a warmth between them, light flirtation and genuine affection. There were moments when he wondered if she was going to approach him, propose some sort of arrangement, and he wondered if he'd have the strength to refuse her (or, at least, tell her "not yet".)

Then there were the other moments, when they happened to be alone (by circumstance, not plan) and she'd do something unconsciously affectionate – sweeping imaginary dust from his shoulder, smoothing his jacket, placing a brief hand on his arm when she spoke to him. She had already begun catching his elbow when she wanted his attention.

The worst part was that he was beginning to respond in kind – just yesterday, as he'd been about to help her dismount, he'd noted a stray curl and had been unable to resist tucking it behind her ear. He'd been aghast, about to apologise when she'd beamed at him, a gentle, adorable blush on her cheeks.

Moments like that made him feel suddenly very certain that he wasn't just a manifestation of her rebellion, that this thing between them – whatever it was – was real.

Which somehow made it all the worse, all the more dangerous.


	2. Wishing

For a very long time, Sibyl had wondered if she'd ever marry at all. Very few men had taken her interest, even at the ball, and fewer still who she had felt she could share her true feelings (true thoughts, true aspirations, true hopes) with.

If you included men she was actually attracted to, there was only one name on the list – Thomas Branson.

The night he'd taken – no. The night he'd _driven_ her to the ball, she'd asked him, almost too coyly, what he thought of her appearance. She couldn't really explain why she'd done it – well, other than the obvious reason. Part of her had known it was almost unfair of her to ask it of him, and yet she'd wanted (needed?) to know that he thought she was beautiful.

Which was exactly what he'd told her, in a wistful, almost heartbreaking way.

It was roughly then that she realised the seriousness of these feelings, and that they may have been getting out of hand. It was then that she wanted to tell him just to drive the two of them somewhere, and they could just sit together, talking all night, instead of having to force conversation with men who bored her.

(He had, for the record, hated that evening – much as seeing Sibyl look so beautiful had been a wonderful thing, knowing that she looked so beautiful and was walking into a room filled with bachelors was far from wonderful. It was one of the few times when he genuinely hated his job, and wished he could refuse it.)

She had left as soon as she could, asked him to take a longer route home, and told him at length of the bores she had endured, of the ridiculous things they believed, that she'd wished he could've been there with her.

He hadn't been able to stop himself from saying that he'd wished he could've been with her, too.


	3. Touch

Odd as it seemed, she had become preoccupied with his hands.

Most of the time when she saw him, it was in the car, and his hands were gloved. She found herself wondering what his hands looked like – what they felt like, too, but she was more than aware of how inappropriate that was.

It was his afternoon off when she actually saw them – saw him, settled under a tree, reading, halfway through eating an apple.

She knelt down beside him, without his noticing. "Is it good?"

He looked up, smiling, surprised. "The apple or the book?"

"Both, I suppose." She curled her feet under her. "Your afternoon off, then?"

He nodded.

"You're not in the village, seeing your sweetheart?" She asked as innocently as she could.

He gave her an odd look. "No sweetheart to see." (Although she heard "You know I haven't got one, don't tease me like this.") "Besides, I have reading to catch up on."

She craned to see the title, making him chuckle, beginning to move it out of her view until he remembered himself, remembered his job. He held it out for her to see, as she edged closer.

She raised her eyebrows. "Republic?"

"Philosopher kings." He grinned. "It's not without its flaws, I know, but it's an interesting idea."

"Something you intend to base your own policies on?" She asked thoughtfully, deciding to lie down in the grass.

"I'm not sure I want to be an MP, as such. I want to work in politics, and I want to make things happen, but I'm not sure I'd be suited to being an MP."

"I'd vote for you." She glanced at him, smiling playfully. "If they'd let me vote."

He laughed. "I'll do what I can."

"Have you applied anywhere?"

"Trying to get rid of me, m'lady?"

She sat up, shaking her head. "No, no – I'll miss you terribly, but I know that you..." She looked at him seriously. "I know you have aspirations beyond this place."

"I have written to a few politicians." He admitted. "To see what staff they need. But I've yet to hear anything." He smiled. "You'll miss me?"

She nodded. "You're the only one who'll listen to me about half of the things I care about." She looked at his hands, smiling to herself. "I'll leave you be, Tom, it isn't fair for me to bother you like this on your day off."

"I don't mind." He insisted, wondering when he'd become Tom, not Branson. "Honestly. You're more than welcome to stay."

She began to stand up, shaking her head. "No, really, it wouldn't be fair – "

He reached for her hand, unthinking. "Stay."

"I could say the same to you." She replied quietly, briefly squeezing his hand before leaving him.

* * *

_Incidentally, I'm just going to mention here that this series is complete - unlike A Man of His Word where I am majorly blocked, this one is planned out and drafted. Far from perfect and still in need of poking with a big stick, but there nevertheless. The next section is the one which needs editing the most, actually, so there's something to look forward to..._


	4. Impressions

It was the third ball that month – Cora Crawley had, apparently, decided that she was going to ensure the prospects of her daughters.

It had become something of a ritual, all of the chauffeurs gathering together to play cards until they were called upon. It was something that those higher up were aware of but turned a blind eye to; it kept them all in one place, and (by and large) out of trouble.

"Branson. I reckon you've got the best of all of us. Three daughters to ferry round?"

He didn't know the chauffeur who spoke, but he knew his type.

He knew better than to rise to it, too.

"Imagine the conversation, though. You must have to listen to such rubbish. About balls and dresses. Ugh." Jones was an old acquaintance, one who knew Tom a little too well for his liking – the way that only a good friend could. "Something to look at, I suppose, but you have to keep your eyes on the road. Allan, you've got it best. Pretty thing to drive around, and a man for decent conversation."

Allan smirked. "I must say, I do get the best of both worlds."

The original questioner (Branson would later learn that his name was Wilson) kept his eyes on Branson. "You know what I'm talking about, Branson. Three young daughters..."

"I'm afraid I don't, I drive with both hands on the wheel." Branson replied smoothly, glancing at his cards as most of the others laughed. "And I think the time has come to shuffle the deck."

Wilson seemed irritated that he hadn't managed to tap a nerve, or heard any lewd stories, but moved on all the same. "Anderson. That blushing bride – you must have some good stories?"

Branson raised an eyebrow at Jones, who rolled his eyes – they would discuss it, at some point, and Jones would inform him that this was just what Wilson did.

"Branson?"

He glanced up, turning to the speaker.

"The Crawleys are ready to depart."

Branson replaced his hat, nodding to his colleagues. "Until next time."

Cora Crawley looked really very pleased indeed, happily chatting to Mary and Edith. Sybil seemed quiet, thoughtful. When he tried to meet her eyes, she turned away, unable to look at him. There wasn't the usual affectionate moment as he assisted her into the car, no gentle, knowing smile.

"...and don't think I've forgotten, Sibyl. You held Lord Chancery's attention beautifully this evening, I think he is more than a little taken with you. He promised he'd come for dinner next week, we could get you a new dress?" Cora beamed.

Sibyl smiled shyly. "Perhaps."

"Did you take a liking to him?" Cora asked, her tone changing, suddenly softer.

"I..." Sybil couldn't look up. "I did."

It took most of Branson's self control to maintain his composure.

He tried not to listen – tried to shut it out, willed them to change the topic, but no. Cora was merrily talking about all of the things that Sybil had done right, of the way that she had charmed this (apparently) handsome, rich young lord.

For the first time, Branson was almost certain that his expression mirrored Edith's – they both wished this line of conversation would end.

They arrived back at Downton – he had slipped himself away into another world, forced his eyes onto the road, forced himself not to listen (as best he could). It felt almost like no time had passed at all, like a dream – then again, that may have been wishful thinking.

He helped Sybil out last, as customary, and for a brief moment their eyes met – she looked apologetic, he looked hurt, but in the darkness nobody noticed it. He didn't squeeze her hand, and she didn't grant him the usual smile.

She didn't look back as she entered the house.

* * *

_Sorry, editing this one took a while; I was worried that it dragged, but... well, m'gallies told me it didn't, and that's enough for me! Hopefully you didn't think it did... The ending is currently very much under surgery. Hopefully shouldn't be as long a wait between this and the next chapter - although I'll be going from basically part-time to pretty much full-time work over the next few weeks, so fic in general may end up being few and far between..._

_Thank you for the lovely reviews so far, they're much appreciated 3  
_


	5. Reasons

"You need a good reason, not to go to war."

She was angry, upset, and if he had been a weaker man he knew his expression would echo hers. Most of the time he forgot that she was young – that she was the youngest of the family – but in this moment he remembered it all too well. This was a wilful youth, a determined, conscious naivety, a deliberate act of obstinance.

It didn't suit her.

"Surely you have a good reason. We _need_ you here!" She paused, desperation forcing her to play her cards. "I need you here."

His resolve was going to break, he knew it.

Ever since the ball – ever since the man, the Lord, had taken a shine to her (and, apparently, her to him) – he had stepped back, forced himself away from her. It wasn't surrender, as such – he liked to think of it as a noble act. If she hadn't shown signs of genuine affection toward the man, he would have continued as they were, but she seemed to –

He could barely bring himself to think it, true as it seemed.

Of course, he was human, and he was weak; taking her hand in his, enjoying her embrace at the garden party... Then again, her lord hadn't appeared there, so perhaps he was to be excused, perhaps it was just a failing memory – perhaps her feelings weren't as strong as he'd presumed.

The declaration of war changed everything, of course.

"A chauffeur is not considered – "

"Damn what is considered essential! _You_ are essential!" She was raging, and he was beginning to wish that he hadn't chosen to tell her whilst they were taking a turn around the grounds (a last perk, he had decided, on one of his few remaining afternoons off).

"Every man who goes to war is essential to someone." He forced himself to keep his tone even. "Those who don't choose to sign up will be conscripted soon enough. I'd rather choose – "

"It is not a choice." She hissed. "It is nothing even resembling a choice. This is wrong. You're – you're so young!"

He supposed he was, but it was odd to hear her say it.

"You – you can't waste your life like this, I won't – I won't allow it!" Her hands balled into fists, and just for a moment he felt like she could really stop the entire thing, a sort of reverse Helen of Troy. Sibyl of Downton; the face that stopped a thousand bullets.

"I won't waste my life." He said softly – an unspoken promise.

Her shoulders sagged – he was resolute, he had no choice. "Surely...Surely you have a good reason not to go." She said finally, weakly, meeting his eyes. "Surely... I am a good reason, not to go."

His resolve crumbled as he took her hands in his, not caring who may be watching, not anymore. "You are the finest reason not to go. The only real one that I have. But – as you say, it's not a choice."

She shook her head violently, pulling her hands away from his, moving away from him, turning away from him. "I can't watch you leave. I'm not strong enough."

"You're the strongest woman I've ever known." He replied quietly, not following her, despite longing to.

She glanced back, eyes red around the rims, a defiant look on her face. "I will fight this. With every inch of my being."

"Then at least one thing is right with the world."


	6. Undone

There was banging on the door – it was much too late at night for this, it must have been an emergency. Flustered, he ran towards it, throwing it open –

"Lady Sibyl – "

"There's nothing that can be done." She spoke it slowly, quietly, as if telling him made it real. "You – you have to go."

He nodded – she had truly believed that she could save him from this fate? Truly thought that there was a chance? His heart hurt. "Yes."

"It...it actually has to..." She looked almost if she were about to collapse.

"Come in, sit down." Damn propriety, damn it all.

She did – simply dressed as she was, he couldn't help but wonder if she had just pulled the nearest dress over her night gown. Lucky he had been up late reading, or –

Well. It didn't really bear thinking about.

"I...but you can't go." She sounded so weak like that, and he could almost hear his heart breaking – and her heart, too? "You can't. You just can't."

"I have to." He said quietly, sitting down beside her – the small table was big enough for one, cosy for two. "I searched for a good reason, but I don't have one – at least, not in the eyes of the law." His hand found hers, tethering her to reality, to him.

She stared at him, wild-eyed. "But it simply isn't fair."

He squeezed her hand. "I hate to say it, but life isn't fair." He felt like he was breaking her – perhaps he should've been, perhaps he should've tried to break her heart, set her free from him.

He wasn't a strong enough man to do that; he wasn't strong enough to break himself, too.

"When do you leave?"

"Too soon."

She smiled weakly – a shadow of her former smile. "It will always be too soon."

"Next week." He informed her gently, hating himself as that fragile smile shattered, as she shattered, as she flung her arms around him and wept bitterly.

He didn't speak – neither said a word for the rest of that night, her arms around him, him gently smoothing her hair. The minutes felt like hours, until she finally let go of him, standing – she had to leave.

He walked her to the door, threw caution to the wind, stopped caring about any of it – he pressed his lips to hers, felt her arms cling to him, held her slim form against his body, wondered if he'd ever know this again.

He released her earlier than he wished to – if he didn't release her then, he knew he never would, he knew that things would happen that could not be undone.

From the look in her eyes, she would be only happy to undo herself – no. He couldn't. He mustn't. He was stronger than that (he was too weak for it).

He watched her leave, slipping back to a world he'd never know.


	7. Lifeline

The letter he received had clearly been written with a shaking hand – an uncertain, distressed hand. It was not so much written as scrawled – but it was _her_ scrawl, at least.

Letters such as these never contained good news.

Time alone wasn't really an option at the front, and as such he opened it as soon as he got it – before, he'd tried to find himself some privacy with which to read her words, but had soon found that if he did this, he'd never read them.

Letters were sacred; if someone was reading a letter, they weren't interrupted, in the same way that someone clinging to a lifeline didn't have their fingers prised from it.

It opened badly; he was not "my dear tom" "my love" "my dearest", he was "Tom,".

And even then, it looked somehow as if she had wanted to call him by his surname, wanted to distance herself.

Most of her letters had been written quickly, with passion, with affection – as if she had to spill her feelings onto the page before they overwhelmed her. This letter was measured, thought out – painful.

"I am sorry. I wish I could tell you differently, but the situation has been pulled from my hands, and I no longer have a choice in the matter. I have, as far as they can see, no good reason to refuse."

He was beginning to feel sick.

"They believe" there were marks on the page, tears? "that any feelings I have for you are adolescence, or a rebellion against my position. They do not believe in them, and they will not believe me when I argue. They believe that a good marriage is the best hope for me, especially in light of other failures."

Morbid curiosity, the need to know the truth, drove him to read on – although he knew he'd hate what he found.

"He is, at least, a good man – he is like you. He listens to me. He respects my opinions; it would be too much to ask for him to share them, I suppose. He is like you, but he is not you – which is, of course, why my heart is breaking. But at least it is yours as it breaks; you shall own the pieces."

He wanted to believe that this was a dream.

She was marrying a man like him – that made everything so much worse, to know that her family could accept her match to a man like him. That for the sake of social standing, for the sake of the order of birth, for the sake of damnable currency he was denied the woman he loved, he was denied happiness.

He realised it with a dull sort of inevitability, as if he were watching a bullet (a thousand bullets) aim itself at his chest, in slow-motion, not thinking to (not able to) move – he may love again, but not like that. Any other woman would never match her, anyone else would just be...

It wasn't fair for him to "settle" for any woman, nor for any woman to be settled for.

"We marry in the spring – my parents talk of new beginnings, but I shall only see dead trees, the dying winter. I do not love him, Tom, I don't believe I ever will. I love you, and you alone. I have tried, Tom, I truly have, but there is nothing to be done."

"I cannot promise you another letter after this; if I am discovered, then I shall never be able to contact you again. So know this, Tom, remember this – I am yours, I always will be yours, no matter what my name may be, no matter the ring on my finger. _I am yours._"

* * *

_Not sure if you've read it, but when I mentioned in Women He Loved, Women He Lost that it had some similarities to Distance, this is pretty much the chapter I meant - as, I'm presuming, you can tell. What with...y'know...the similarities..._


	8. Solace

They met in London, him on leave, her the new society wife.

It was as if they played roles, acting the parts they were born to play, charming and understated, quashing the undercurrent of need, love, want, ache, desire, adoration that flowed. Nobody could know that she loved him, that he loved her – they were old friends, meeting again, quite by chance.

In a tiny hotel just outside London, they were (they played, they _had_ to play, they were forced to play, no matter how real it felt, how natural it was) a new couple, newlywed, young, besotted with one another, using a name that felt familiar but wasn't quite right.

(Nobody there believed that they were truly married, but there was a war on – young couples checking in under an assumed surname weren't a rarity, and the owners turned a blind eye to the lack of wedlock.)

Her husband – her legal husband – was on business, somewhere in the wilds of Scotland, probably in the arms of his secretary. It was an understanding, she informed Tom– they were not in love, but they were friends, and so long as neither got caught then love affairs (so long as they were _love_ affairs) were permissible.

She liked his secretary, she informed Tom, he was a decent cove, a charming young man, with a limp and a faraway look in his eye – he had come home early from war, and had seen too much.

And he would like Tom, she promised – they would get along well, probably even gain his blessing.

The marriage was a sham, yes, but they both understood that it was a sham, it was a convenient sham.

His Sibyl was jaded – but then again, so was he.

He only had a handful of days – they only had one night together. Tonight. A volume of feeling distilled into a few precious hours.

His fingers on her skin, her voice in his ear – an assault on the senses, both needing this, both needing to create a memory they could hide in, live in.

They did not talk about their situation, both ignoring the front, her husband. She cried, and he held her – she had believed that the infidelity would mean nothing to her without love, but she had been wrong. He clung tightly to her, kissing her tenderly, whispering in her ear, making promises they both knew couldn't be kept.

It was simultaneously a false and true wedding night; her husband of law had no interest in such things, but there was no legal bind between her and Tom. All around them seemed to know (but ignore – such kindnesses came with wartime, such kindnesses would not have been given without his soldier's uniform) that it was not a real marriage, but that night was more real than the ceremony she had stoically endured.

They returned to the city, her a lady, him a soldier. There may have been a lingering look between them, hands which grazed for too long to be accidental, but if anybody noticed they didn't comment on it.

There was, after all, a war on.


	9. Disclosure

She and her husband didn't share a bed; he had no interest in sharing a bed with her, something she wasn't troubled by. They sat, in their drawing room, and she told him all about her Tom, and he told her of his James.

She liked to think of herself as a modern woman, and how much more modern could you get, discussing paramours with your husband?

She didn't pretend to really understand the relationship between his lordship (she could not think of him having a first name, even though she used it when they spoke – in her mind, he was an abstract figure, nameless, almost formless) and James, but she could tell that the feelings ran deep, that there was love here. That was enough, somehow, although she wasn't certain of how much of a comfort it would be in old age.

Her pregnancy was a surprise to both of them, although both knew, unspoken, who the father was – the only man it could be.

Still, they ignored it – or at least, they ignored it to speak of. Sybil could think of nothing else, caught in confusion, heart aching and swelling in equal measure, caught between intense joy (a life, a life that belonged to her and Tom, one formed of them, united) and deep sorrow (a bastard child, that may never know their true father, a child that couldn't be heir).

Her husband may not have loved her in the way society expected him to, but he still cared for the young woman who bore his name. And, of course, the matter could not remain secret for much longer.

They sat, one long evening, and began to discuss – if the child were to be heir...

He mused on it, pacing – she could not hide the pregnancy for long. Could he raise another's as his own?

Not that he had intended on having an heir – in truth, he had been surprised to find himself a wife. He had a nephew, a distant one – like a stranger, in truth, but they shared blood.

He thought out loud, finally turning to see his wife weeping, confessing that she did not want her child to live not knowing their father, that she should never have married.

He told her slowly, quietly, that if she ran away with _him_, then they would both be ruined. That he could try and raise the child – or perhaps hide her away for the remains of her pregnancy, and claim the child a wanderer, one they adopted, one that would not be expected as heir.

She rose, saying softly that she had a letter to write.

* * *

_Bet you thought I'd forgotten about this! _

_Well...you were right, I kinda did... Job has somewhat eaten my life. But hopefully I'll get the next part up a little sooner, eheh...  
_


	10. Closeness

Home was a small cottage in France – she had a lot to get used to, having known the sprawl of Downton for most of her life. A lack of staff, too – having to do things for herself had begun as a marvellous adventure but was a struggle now. She knew, in time, it would not be struggle, it would just be life.

Her Tom was not the same man she had known before, but she had expected that – she knew that she was not the same woman she had been (had she been a woman, or had she been a little girl?)

It was not an easy life – they still had struggles with the language, sometimes, and the children had their unruly moments. She rarely heard from her family, although she wrote to them, frequently. Mary had promised to visit, soon, in a short letter that Sibyl suspected had been sent without anyone else knowing.

Years of learning things an accomplished young woman should know had left her mostly unsuited to work – she took in other's children, taking care of them during the day, and did some sewing. She was learning, slowly, but she knew Tom wished she could learn faster.

He worked on the fields – it broke her heart, her soldier, her politician working in the fields. They had both given up so much for this – she wondered, sometimes, if he thought it was worth it. She wondered if she did.

But then her daughter would tug at her skirt, or her son would gurgle happily, or her common-law husband would come home from the field and pull her into his arms.

There were moments when she wondered about asking him if he were happy, but she'd catch him just studying her, or see him reading to the children out of the corner of her eye. She saw the family that had grown around them, with them barely noticing, and sometimes she could even forget the scandal they had caused, forget the mess that lived in Britain.

It wasn't the happily ever after for them that she had dreamed of, but she had learnt quickly enough that a fairytale ending was just that. That reality was a different beast, but that did not mean that there was no happiness to be had.

_...The last chapter is tiny, isn't it? I barely even noticed until looking at it now. Anyway - I hope you enjoyed this story, and I hope that... It feels weird to say that I hope you like the ending, just because I don't think it could have ended any other way, you know? Thank you for the reviews and the alerts and all of that business, they meant a lot, especially with work-crazyness.  
_


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